


It is written

by Savorybreakfasts



Category: Lawrence of Arabia
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BDSM, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 04:55:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10550420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savorybreakfasts/pseuds/Savorybreakfasts
Summary: Lawrence becomes Aurens, Aurens and Ali in love, first times, hurt/comfort, Clouds Hill, bittersweet ending.





	1. Because of his pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> First ever fanfic. Watched Lawrence of Arabia in February; something caught my imagination and hasn't let go.

“You trouble me like women.”  
Hours after the feast, Ali paces the camp alone, slashing his camel whip through the air. He is troubled. He is troubled by Auda’s words, and he is troubled by this English.  
While he and Aurens spoke to Auda, he was taken up by his game, delighting to see his friend massage the obtuse Howeitat’s ego to meet their ends, just as he had delighted in obliquely calling him a bastard yesterday at the well. But as the evening wore on, the images of Aurens at the feast grew murkier. Why did he say, “He will come for his pleasure?” And why did he slide low in his saddle, run his hand down its horn, put his thumb to his mouth. How dare he! Where was the righteous man who cursed him at the well? Who was this boy gazing up through his eyelashes, leaning back as if in invitation? To Auda?!  
Who was he? At the oasis Ali gazed upon him as he drifted in his book, moving his legs in the water. Crossing the Anvil he saw him drift on his camel and struck him with the whip to rouse him, and did not let himself even listen to the sound of it connecting. When those silly children threw themselves at the English’s feet he spat, “These are not servants, they’re worshipers,” and smacked them. Because this man was pure, because he did not know of the desires of the youths at his feet, did not know what he aroused in Ali.  
The next day he went back to the Anvil, a suicide mission to save one not worthy! Ali screamed himself hoarse, “Blasphemer, you will not be at Aqaba, English!” But he left. And then he returned. Truly for some men nothing is written unless they themselves write it. Ali vowed in that moment never to doubt him, only to protect him. He gave him water, lead him to his own bedroll that he had left open, waiting for Aurens to return and lay himself down, sleeping on his side like a child. And then when he woke he gave that sweet smile, and the confession of not bearing his father’s name. “Then you can choose your own. El Aurens is best.” Aurens accepted his name with an ironic smile, but then turned away as if hurt; he had shown too much, revealed too much. His pain tore at Ali, so he brought the blanket to his shoulders tenderly, and Aurens permitted it.  
He was roiled by the emotions brought on by the vulnerability of this man, who shrugged off Ali’s admiration and instead shared his shame, and he tore from the line the uniform of that country that left him without a father’s name, with nothing to inherit when he should be a lord, and threw it on the fire as Daud and Farraj looked on, astonished.  
He would dress him instead in the robes of his people. The next day Ali’s heart, and more, swelled at the sight of his friend racing into the desert jubilantly, robes swirling around him. But he pushed down the desire he felt. “This man is innocent.”  
Now, as he paces, he laughs bitterly remembering the English’s seductive gaze at the old man. El Aurens. I denied myself even the dream of you looking up at me, to protect your innocence from my desire, but you will give that look to a money grubbing old man in exchange for guns and camels?  
Ali brings his whip down on his own leg in frustration then yelps in surprise. What is this foolish man doing to him? He begins to suspect he shot the wrong man at the well.  
A shimmer of light in the darkness ahead of him, the moon shining on the Englishman’s fair hair. He bounds over lightly, girlishly. “Did you hear, Ali? 300 men, camels and guns he promised us!” His triumphant smile is too much to bear and Ali grabs him roughly by the arms and shakes him. “You are a whore!” He spits the words out, shoves him away. “He will come because of his pleasure. You speak to me of honor then prostitute yourself to Auda?”  
Lawrence steps back and appraises him coolly. “You are an ignorant man,” but this stratagem does nothing to slow the torrent of bitter words.  
“And after you will go to Cairo and put off these silly clothes and put on trousers and tell of our quaintness, our barbarity, and they will believe you.”  
The words hit their mark and Lawrence loses the ironic mask. “No, Ali, no, these robes… This is not dress-up!” His voice is desperate, but has no effect.  
“Leave me. I will ride with you to Aqaba but no further.”  
An almost unbearable amount of time seems to pass before Ali opens his eyes and sees Aurens standing before him miserably.  
“I botched things up terribly, Ali; I cannot blame you if you never speak to me again. Only know this is not play for me. When you gave me this name, when you gave me these robes…” his voice disappears.  
“Then why? Why would you approach Auda like a pleasure boy? Trading your beauty for weapons to satisfy the English’s goals. Using our desires…”  
At the last two words Lawrence looks up. “It felt good. Being wanted. I did not think that you…”  
“You fool! You could not see how I held myself back from you!”  
“I thought, I told you about my father; you gave me your family’s robes; you were kind enough to view me as a brother, only my perversion…”  
Ali pulls him over roughly and kisses him hard. “You are a fool, Aurens. But if you allow me, I will teach you.”  
Aurens looks into his eyes, down the length of his black robes, and back to his right hand, still clutching the whip.  
“Yes.”


	2. Flowers for the man

Lawrence, Aurens, (he’s still unsure how he feels about the silly new name, but is quite sure how he feels about its bestower) rides alone on the edge of the Red Sea. He thinks about the battle, his first, about the victory, about the man who rode by his side, spurring him to go faster. Incredible to think that a month ago he was painting maps in a dark and nasty office in Cairo, and being reprimanded daily over the state of his uniform. He smiles at the sight of the white robes flowing over his thighs. Yes, he much prefers this uniform. And the name? El Aurens. He shakes his head; the name is ludicrous in its majesty. El. As if he has a title not a name. But Aurens? Aurens, said softly in the dark…yes, that will do.  
Something red catches the corner of his eye, and he hears Ali’s laughing voice, “The miracle is accomplished. Garlands for the conqueror.” He sees red poppies bobbing in the tide and splashes down from his camel to save them. “Tribute for the prince, flowers for the man.”  
He takes up the garland. “I'm none of those things, Ali.”  
“What then?”  
“Don't know. Thanks. God, I love this country.”  
There is a long pause as he looks out to sea before Ali answers. “Then I will show you, Aurens.”  
Lawrence shivers at the words, and at the salt water that laps up and makes contact with the welts on the backs of his thighs. Was that only two nights ago? The past 48 hours have taken on a dreamlike quality. He remembers Gasim, shudders. Must not think of it. Not now. It does not feel good; it did not; it did not feel good to hold the power of life and death in his hands. He is tired is all; he must not think those things.  
They walk down the shore until they see a dune large enough to shelter behind.  
“Here.” Ali says, and takes the camels to rest nearby.  
When he returns he says, “Take off your robes, Aurens.”  
He considers saying no. Then he looks at Ali deeply, is flooded with a nameless desire he has never felt, and obeys.  
When he is quite naked, he turns around to see Ali still fully enrobed, much to his disappointment. Ali laughs at his expression. “You thought that I… no. Perhaps another day, Aurens.”  
Ali comes closer and takes Lawrence in his arms, whispers to him. “You are a conquerer. And you are a prince. But today I will show you the man.”  
He releases him and says firmly, “Get on your knees.”  
Again, Lawrence is startled, and again, he obeys. He notes with relief that Ali has left the camel whip with the camel.  
For a moment Ali stands and gazes down at him. Then he shakes his head quickly, as if to rouse himself from a reverie, and joins Lawrence on the sand, on his knees in front of him, and kisses him.  
The kisses become deeper, more urgent, but still so gentle as his hands caress Lawrence’s skin. Lawrence moans, and murmurs “Please, Ali, please. I want your body, your skin on mine.” Ali pulls back and looks at him. “Not today, Aurens. Now lean forward on your hands.”  
Once again Lawrence obeys, though he finds this position quite humiliating. The other night with the whip he remained standing, clothed. But this? He can feel the flush in his face and suddenly a prickling in his eyes. He sets his jaw. He will not cry.  
Ali leans close, bends over him, reaches around to the front and finds him hard. And when he wraps his hand around Lawrence finds his words. “Please, Ali. You. Your body. Your cock.”  
Once again Ali pulls away at this request, raises himself to kneeling behind Lawrence on the sand.  
“Why, Ali? Why won't you?”  
In response he feels a deep, pleasurable pain as Ali thrusts into him.  
“Oh, yes,” he gasps. “Thank you, this is what I need.”  
To his surprise he hears laughter. “This, English, is my finger. You are not ready. But you will be, in time.”


	3. A Golden Bullet

El Aurens, as he has come to view himself, stands on top of the captured train, taking in with greedy eyes Arabia laid out below him, golden light, golden sands, his men.  
Everything has been perfect since his return from Cairo. He holds the power of destruction in his hands. The Turks know it and put a bounty on his head. His people know it and chant his name. This American reporter who follows him. Only Ali seems troubled.  
A sharp pain startles him; he falls from the train, grasps his bleeding arm, says, “Good, good, good” through clenched jaw.  
He had set himself to study all pain. Fascinated by it since boyhood, terrified and drawn to it as, he imagines, a moth to its flame.  
The desert is the perfect partner in his quest.   
At night in their tent, Ali wraps the bandage around Aurens’ upper arm. “You must be more careful.”  
“It's nothing, Ali.”  
“You must be more careful. You see the men are leaving you? You are taking too many risks. What you said today, a golden bullet.”  
“A joke, Ali.”  
“I do not believe you. You think you are a prophet. Feel this pain now. You have a body like any man.”  
“Not like any man, Ali.”   
Aurens sees Ali soften. “No, not any man. But a man, Aurens. You are a man and you can be hurt, and I am afraid…”  
The nakedness in his eyes touches Aurens. He reaches his hand to Ali’s face, turns it towards him and finds his mouth. He kisses Ali slowly, deeply. “Do not be afraid, Ali. Never afraid.”  
“Aurens, I want, what you have been asking for. To give it to you.”  
Lawrence hides his trembling, his excitement, controls his voice and replies, “Then I want you naked. I want to see and touch you.”  
Ali draws in his breath, is silent for a moment. “I will be naked, Aurens. But you may not see or touch me.”  
“How, then?”  
Ali holds the roll of bandages as an answer. He pushes Aurens down, says, “Your hands.” Aurens stretches his hands over his head obediently. He does not know what comes over him when he is with Ali. Uncrowned King of Arabia, but this man could make him submit to anything, and it frightens Aurens to know he might know that. Ali stretches his arms further, crosses his wrists and wraps the bandages around.   
“Now, to stop your seeing.”   
He wraps the bandages around his eyes. Then he reaches and pulls off the loose white pants, leaving him naked, and stands.  
Aurens waits. Hears Ali hesitate, does not hear him remove his own clothes, and is frustrated at being left alone, unable to see. He lies helpless, waiting. He wants pain. He wants Ali's body on his; he wants kisses and caresses, but more than anything he wants pain. Will Ali know?  
“Aurens.”  
“Yes?”  
“You must learn you have a body. You must learn you can be hurt, before someone hurts you too much. I must teach you this lesson. Then I will remove my clothes, and I will give you what you want.”  
Does he know how I want the pain? Is he giving me what I want or punishing me for his fear? Does it matter?  
What he says out loud is, as always, yes.  
Ali's cane has been near all this time. It has been so long since he has used it on Aurens, that night after Auda’s feast, and then Aurens was clothed, standing. He feels his nakedness, fears that what Ali has in mind tonight is true punishment. He knows he wants it. But he is still afraid when he hears the cane whistle through the air, still surprised by the pain in his legs after only one stroke. It is so much more than that first night. The second stoke comes in close succession, and the third. He will not cry out. He will take this.  
He tries to number the blows but loses count. Ali lands the whip on his back, his arse, his thighs. His mind is wracked by the searing pain of his body. He has no idea of the passing of time, of anything but pain. Finally it stops, and he hears a sob. Ali is weeping.   
“I went too far, Aurens. I punished you too much.”  
“No, Ali. No. Ali. I can take it. I can take so much. Fuck me now. I cannot wait.”  
He has never spoken like this before.  
He hears Ali remove his robes, hears him fumble for the tin of salve, then feels his body hover over his back. He hesitates, as if afraid to cause more pain by touching him. Aurens cannot bear it. He says, “Hurt me, Ali. Do it,” and moans in satisfaction as Ali mounts him.  
His flesh is cleaved. He cries out as Ali thrusts deeper. He was silent for the beating, but now he cries out. He worries for a moment that Ali will stop, but he is not stopping, he is thrusting harder, and again time is lost.  
And now there is pleasure, deep inside of him, building like a wave until it crests, crashes, and he cries out, thrashes against his bound hands, the weight of Ali's body holding him down, the pleasure and the pain inside him and the pain of his skin. He has never felt this before. He screams until Ali puts his hand over his mouth, then bites the hand. As he comes down he feels Ali’s own release, hears him grunt, sigh.  
They are spent. Ali throws on his robe and unties Aurens hands, uncovers his eyes.  
“You've done that before.” Aurens says, in what he hopes is a light tone.  
“Yes. You have not.”  
“No.”  
“With a woman?”  
“Not with anyone.”  
“Aurens.” Ali wraps his arms around him. “Aurens. You have a body. You can have pleasure. You can be hurt. Please, do not…”  
His voice trails off, and he holds Aurens instead. Who wonders, why does he mean to warn me? Did I not just show there is no pain I cannot master? It's true that it would take a golden bullet to kill me.


	4. This is the Stuff

Why did he come here? Why did he allow Aurens to bring him here? “Walk on water with me, Ali.” Which turned out to mean walk through a mud puddle and laugh, after Ali had said, “Be patient with him, God,” showing exasperation in place of the terror and rage he would not let himself reveal. He had tried, and Aurens had not listened, so there was no remedy but to walk by his side and make light of his hubris.  
He was playing at war! This light haired boy, blowing up trains, as if this were those English children's books he gave Ali to practice, A Boy’s Own adventure. Lawrence of Arabia. Playing at war, playing at pain, playing at being someone he could never be. As he stood by the pillar Ali feared what would happen when his play world was shattered, if it was being shattered right now, if he was being shattered, his beautiful body broken.  
He could not listen to the sounds coming from that room, could not help hearing them. This was not a game, what they were doing to him was brutal, barbarous and cruel, and nothing like the game Ali played with him in the nights.  
For it was a game; it was a game and he did it for pleasure. Ali realizes this now, he was playing as much as Aurens, a different game perhaps but still pretend. Did he really believe he was protecting him, punishing him as you would a child who reached for the fire, to save him from greater pain? Had he thought that, even for a moment, or had he know what he really felt as he wielded the cane, that it was the same as he felt when he plowed Aurens’ body after?  
He knows now, and he is sick at the thought of the punishment being inflicted on Aurens.  
He hears a door open; Aurens is tossed out on the ground. When Ali reaches him he turns his face away into the mud, and this hurts Ali as much as his bloodied back.   
He is silent on the ride to Azraq, silent as they sit in the ruins. He is silent when Ali cleans and bandages his cuts, and though Ali is as gentle as he can be he knows it must hurt terribly. Yet Aurens is quiet, gazing into the middle distance, not responding to the pain or to Ali's clumsy words of comfort. He takes the food Ali gives him, lifts it to his mouth numbly. He listens when Ali tells him, “Eat. Eat, then sleep.” Ali would give anything to see him rise up, insult him, taunt him. He would give anything to feel exasperated again.  
When Aurens has been asleep for hours Ali creeps into his place beside him, moves as close as he can without making contact, and cries silently.  
This goes on for days.  
One night Ali strips bare, slides next to Aurens, inches away, still not daring to touch him. He knows Aurens is awake, and holds his breath as he silently offers his body, his nakedness, cursing himself for having withheld it and praying that it will bring his friend back to himself. Aurens gives no response, though Ali lies beside him naked until morning.  
They repeat it all the next day. The following day, Aurens seems to have rallied. Ali feels grateful, until he hears, “I’m going, Ali.”  
“Why? Why?”  
I've come to the end of myself I suppose.”  
And of me, Aurens? He says out loud, “And of the Arab revolt?”  
“I'm not the Arab revolt. I'm not even Arab.”  
“A man can be what he wants. You said.”  
“See this? This is me. What color is it? This is me, and I can't do anything about it!”  
“A man can do what he wants. You proved that.”  
“Ah, but he can't want what he wants. This is the stuff that decides what he can want.”  
Ali leans over him silent, and then, without hesitating, tears off his own robe. “This is the stuff, Aurens? No. A man can want what he wants.”  
Aurens looks at Ali's body for the first time. His skin is scarred, smooth hairless patches, ragged edges, places where the flesh puckers into itself. He is brought out of his own mind, his own torment, and reaches without thinking to put his hands on Ali's chest. “How?” he asks gently.  
“I went to Cairo for school. There was a boy. I would take him to the desert. He was from the city, his father a doctor, he knew nothing of the sand, of the winds. I would take him to the desert and we would love each other. And then one night I woke with the tent on fire. He'd left the oil lamp burning; he always wanted light; I was sated and had fallen asleep after love and did not realize. I dragged him out; I was on fire; he was not. I thought he was spared. He seemed to be asleep but he did not breathe again. After the funeral his father found my letters and understood why his son had been in the desert that night to die. He sent men to take me and beat me, my flesh not healed from the fire, reopened with their whips. I did not blame him. If there had been someone I could have blamed, have punished…. Since then there have been boys, serving my pleasure. But no one could know me, because I believed like you that this skin is the stuff that decides what we can want. But I was wrong, and you are wrong, Aurens. I want you.”  
He stands exposed, dizzy with what he has done, until Aurens leans towards him and slowly, deliberately brings his lips to Ali's scarred chest. He kisses him, licks him, strokes him with his hands. Moves down to his waist band, asks, “May I?” and waits for Ali's yes before gently pulling his pants down. It hurts him to move still, but he goes to his knees, takes Ali into his mouth, and when Ali releases Aurens finds himself at last able to cry.   
Ali falls to his knees and embraces him. They hold each other until Aurens pulls back, meets his eyes, and says, “I'll stay. I've come to the end of myself, I don't know what it means for me, but I've not come to the end of you. As long as you are here, Ali, I will stay by your side.”


	5. A leaf from its tree

Clouds Hill, 13 May 1935  
It takes a moment when Ned awakes to realize where he is. The cabin, Clouds Hill, Dorset. R. snuggles deeper into his bedding, sighs, and Ned wonders, should he tell him he was dreaming of Ali again? Ali, alive again in his dream, far ahead on the beach in Aqaba, silhouetted by the sun, calling, “Aurens! Aurens!” joy and laughter in his voice. No, better to keep that memory to himself. He'll ride to post letters, come back and, then, he doesn't know. He feels like a leaf fallen from its tree these weeks of freedom. But not unhappy, really. A pleasant sort of emptiness. He can fill his days with reading, writing. In a few weeks another trip to Scotland, a session with Jock. He smiles thinking of it. It's taken him a lifetime but he claims what he needs now. He says a silent prayer of thanks to no one in particular, thinks of Ali, kisses R. gently and heads out to his waiting motorbike.


End file.
